


The Love Song You've Earned

by luninosity



Series: Like Sugar (Spell It Out) [10]
Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, BDSM, Collars, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, Hand Feeding, Happy Ending, Leashes, Love, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Porn with Feelings, Spanking, True Love, minor breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: Sebastian wants to try some things, Chris comes home to a surprise, and pizza is, as always, important.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ViperSeven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViperSeven/gifts), [boopboop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/gifts), [Kellyscams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kellyscams/gifts).



> And we're (nearly) done! Thank you, thank you, if you've been reading along and stuck with this series throughout, or if you're here trusting me for the first time - thank you! This whole enormous story wouldn't be what it is without your encouragement.
> 
> There'll be one more chapter of this story, probably next week, plus I think two more Extra Sugar bonus scenes after that, still to come. The title of this one comes from Tegan and Sara's "U-Turn," this time.
> 
> I love you!

_Sebastian_

Sebastian’s making dinner. Not the first time he’s done so. Somehow among the most momentous. Portentous, maybe: signs and promises and signals. An evening. A lifetime.

He checks the oven. Pizza nearly done, precisely timed. He could’ve made something fancier; on the other hand, Chris likes pizza. This one’s hand-prepared, though.

He throws a salad together, minus dressing so it won’t get soggy, and sticks that in the fridge. He nibbles stray wine-infused cheese from a finger.

Their apartment hums around him: a secure steady thrum like a chorus of angels, like the making of honey, like a song. He touches one wall, an impulse. This place they’ve bought together, him and Chris. This place that’s their home, one home; they’ve got the house in Los Angeles and Chris’s old place in Boston, but this will forever be the first.

The wall’s warm under his fingertips, friendly as a well-fed cat. Heat from the kitchen spills and floods and snuggles them both.

The living room’s big picture windows stretch upward, framed by sweeping curtains. Victorian and old-fashioned, they turn the glittering mist-drenched city into a portrait, a postcard, an endless play. Sebastian’s always loved theater. Shakespeare. Musicals. William Inge’s _Picnic_. Anything live and crackling with passion, a performance that’s unique every time, never quite the same again.

Someday he might write a musical. He could do that.

He can do anything. A play, that hypothetical musical, a Broadway show. The opera he’d once dreamed of. A pop album full of lightweight silly songs and piano accompaniment. Another—a less terrible—holiday album. With Chris Evans at his side.

The future unfolds itself in invitation, bright and shiny. He can have it all. He can reach for it the way he can reach for Chris and find a kiss, a caress, a gentle inexorable heartfelt conquering that matches Sebastian’s heartfelt submission.

Chris texts him at this exact moment, because Chris is perfect. Ten minutes. He’ll be home.

Sebastian smiles, stops petting the wall—oh, well, one final pat—and sends back a heart and an eggplant, mostly because he can.

Because he can.

Chris sends back ten hearts, because that’s the kind of man his Dominant is, plus _stay warm and I’ll see you soon!_

He thinks of the morning before his wedding. He thinks of himself sitting alone on the floor of his old apartment’s shoebox shower, shaking under scalding drops.

He wishes he could tell that boy, the one with wet eyes and fierce determination, that within moments of their first meeting his Dominant will feed him grapes and try to make him smile.

He can’t change what’s past. He’s unsure that he would in any case; he considers this while shrugging out of sweatpants, putting on a deliberately chosen collar, finding a small bottle of oil and employing fingers. If he could say something to that younger self—younger only by months, though it feels a lifetime, Before Chris and After Chris—he might not. Or he might, but only simple reassurance, no detail.

He’d needed to learn. Chris had needed to learn. They’d come together. Pun intended.

Naked but for his collar and a few strategic bits of gold, he pads barefoot back out to the living room; he puts on music, classic rock but gentle and full of lyrics about love, songs on the playlist he’s been lazily assembling for moments like this. Labeled _Chris – Happy_ , that playlist. Like their rugs and floor-cushions and bookshelves and himself: liking Chris being happy, and happy with Chris.

He’s been alone most of the day, today. He’d had a morning planning session with Marvel Studios executives, plotting out the next phase of the universe, securing his own involvement as the composer, because he’s been good for them and they want him on board and they want him to know character arcs in advance.

Sebastian loves his job and loves working with Marvel and knows precisely how fortunate he is. Not only have they stood by him through scandal and tumult, they’ve signed him for multiple pictures, not simply three films but even more, a number largely unheard of as far as contracts go. And oh he loves the act of creation, the act of writing, the chance to fall inside a character and a story and to find the core of each and distill it into melody, instruments, peeled-open layers: thin and ragged and hopeful or big and brassy and bold or delicate and wild and fairylike or everything in between—

He’d left the meeting quivering with ideas, notes at fingertips like plucked harpstrings, thoughts like spinning tops, exuberance bolting up and down his spine and wanting to pour out through hands onto a page.

Chris hadn’t been home then, though a note and a small box of blueberry-chocolate truffles had instructed him to eat lunch and to not overwork himself and to text if he needed anything at all. Chris had underlined the last two words. Had drawn a tiny sketch: what’s probably meant to be Sebastian’s own arm brandishing a magic wand, and Chris himself appearing inside a sparkly bubble, conjured up on the spot by request, proclaiming _whatever you need!_

Sebastian smiles at the memory. His Dominant. His artist. That enormous overflowing heart. His to protect, to kneel for, to care for and submit to, to defend against bruises and harm.

He takes the pizza out of the oven— _extremely_ carefully, being mostly naked—and leaves it to cool. He checks the time. Oven-heat whisks across his face, playful as a kitten, thrilled for him.

He’d texted Chris when he’d made a chicken sandwich for belated lunch; Chris had sent back an approving _good boy,_ which’d made Seb’s head whirl briefly with pleasant pink clouds. God, he loves being good for Chris. Knowing he’s made Chris happy. Followed one of those standing orders just right.

That thought makes him shiver in surprise, and then wobble slightly and walk into a kitchen chair. The chair pokes him in the hip; Sebastian rubs the spot, sighs, says, “Sorry,” to it, straightening furniture. The chair’s not upset about the collision. Minor. Not a problem.

Hadn’t been a _bad_ surprise. Only somehow new all over again. That happens from time to time when he’s alone and has a chance to catch his breath. He’s learned this previously unknown piece of himself, and while he’ll never be adept at formal postures or folding his Dominant’s clothes, he does love the small golden core deep inside that lights up and sings when Chris Evans praises him.

He really, really does.

Sebastian Stan, from unregistered scandal to happily married proud submissive, he thinks; and while he’s still smiling that shiver hits his spine again. And again it’s not bad, it’s realization, it’s only a different angle of his own reflection in a newly purchased metaphorical mirror, and it startles him even though he likes it.

He runs a hand through his hair because Chris appreciates it a little messy, bed-tempting, in disarray. He’s shaved; he knows he looks younger that way, more exposed and more vulnerable despite sharp cheekbones and jawline. Chris hasn’t requested that. Sebastian’s been feeling…

He can’t put his finger on it. The swing from the dazzle and sprint of tunes bursting forth, into the gilded glowing head-pat of praise and consequent radiance, to the odd empty tiredness of being in the apartment alone, alone after the composer’s high’d faded and the flicker of strange doubleness’d set in. Is this his life? His apartment? His Dominant?

A year ago he’d been hiding in public and getting flogged and fucked by masked Doms in an anonymous underground club. He’d wept, then, with gratitude and reprieve. He’d been writing film scores for Marvel then too.

He knows Chris loves him. He _knows_ that. Not in question. Comprehended the same way he knows he loves Chris Evans: no cracks in those castle walls, gleaming edifices of morning kisses and chocolate-covered blueberries and Disney-movie sing-alongs and planetarium date nights and scarves wrapped around willing wrists and the relentless kindness of big firm hands. Some storms’ve shown up and battered the towers from time to time, some scars of doubt and fear and external judgment, but they’re standing strong.

Chris has been busy all day, working on preliminary sketches for a project for a local animal rescue organization. Sebastian wouldn’t call his own feelings precisely loneliness. He knows where Chris is, he believes that Chris adores him, he can call or text any time and find his Dominant ready to care for him instantly.

He’s only a bit…

…hollow. Restless. Wrong-footed and shaken.

He thinks of the time he’d missed a step on their staircase, the first week in this new two-story home, and had nearly plunged to the bottom. Chris had caught him that time, with Sebastian’s heart beating like hummingbird’s-wings under his breastbone. Chris’s heart had hammered too.

If he feels like that now it’s not Chris’s fault. It’s not even a fault. It’s a wanting, a yearning, a sheer lack of words.

Sebastian Stan loves Chris Evans. And so: he’s leaned hard into the peculiar shiver, the way he does now, eyes closing. He wants to be good for Chris; he’s never been good at being a graceful traditional submissive. He’s never properly tried.

He’s been reading books, articles, training material found on the internet and borrowed from his brother-in-law. Scott’s told him to keep most of that material anyway; quite a lot of it is distressingly old-fashioned, but maybe Sebastian could use a little old-fashioned right now, and when he’d thought as much he’d laughed at the mental echo: the line’s from one of his Marvel films.

The echo’s potentially true, though. He never _has_ played that traditional strict-protocol role, and how does he know he won’t enjoy it, and he wants to do something to make his husband and Dominant happy. To feel like he’s stepped back into tune with the world. To fill up the hollow with pleasing the person he loves and doing it _right_.

Chris’s key sounds in the lock, coming home.

Chris told him once to keep the locks on when home alone; told him this after some unpleasant messages about Sebastian’s status had snuck into their social media. Nothing’s ever happened; Chris worries nonetheless. Sebastian adheres to that order and is privately amused and mildly frustrated that his Dominant’s _seen_ his ability to handle himself and _still_ fusses.

The amusement mostly wins out. That plus practicality and awareness: it is a good idea just in case, and Chris has reasons for preemptive protectiveness that reach back to past wounds and forward to present and future devotion. Sebastian understands.

He loves Chris Evans so fiercely, so powerfully; he’ll throw himself between Chris’s heart and any further arrows. He knows that one way to guard Chris’s heart involves keeping himself safe, so he nods obediently at locks and door codes and security measures and heart-rate monitors and check-in texts, and launches himself into his Dominant’s lap for kisses and reassurance of reality, and secretly vows that he’ll fight to save Chris if he has to, if he ever has to, with every trick he’s ever learned from fight choreographers and martial artists and stunt men and women, dirty as he needs to get, no holds barred.

His chest hurts and he doesn’t know why.

He’d do anything for Chris, everything—he’d give all of himself, he wants to give all of himself, he wants to show Chris how much of himself he can give, he’s all Chris’s anyway and he wants to put all of him into Chris’s hands, if Chris wants to hold him and carry him—Chris must know this, how much Sebastian feels, but what if he _doesn’t_ know, what if Sebastian’s not done enough, shown him enough, given enough—

Chris’s voice says, opening the door, “Hey, Seb, don’t come down if you’re busy writing something awesome—oh, man, did you make pizza, how’re you so perfect, how’d you know I was kinda thinking—Seb? Sebastian?”

Sebastian, kneeling on the floorboards of the entryway, gold clamps adorning his nipples and gold restraints around his cock and balls, plug shifting inside him, collar and leash around his neck, keeps his head bowed and hands in his lap. Flawless welcome pose: easy to rise and serve or to flow to hands and knees or to lift his head if bidden, but for now, waiting, naked, eyes lowered. Ready for command.

He’s practiced.

“Sebastian…” Chris comes to stand in front of him, shoes and socks kicked off. Bare feet edge into Seb’s vision. One large concerned hand lands on his head, strokes his hair, but doesn’t order him to look up. “Okay, something’s wrong, right? Can you tell me? Did I do something? Did I upset you or—shit, I must’ve, I don’t even—I’m sorry if I did, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

Sebastian’s eyes prickle and swim with tears. Wholly inexplicable. _Not_ upset. Only scooped to the surface, hauled dripping up to revelatory sunlight by the golden net of Chris Evans’ generous self-castigating love.

 

_Chris_

Chris has had a pretty good day, all things considered. Chris has thought this was a good day, anyway.

He drops his bag of sketchpad and supplies. He bolts for Sebastian. If a single step counts as bolting.

His head’s clamoring. What might’ve, what could’ve, happened—he’s not been gone _that_ long, Seb never texted or called or—Seb’s naked, naked and decorated, fuck, pale golden-tanned skin and glinting gilded nipple-clamps and more gold around his lovely thick cock, restrictions and rings, and oh Chris’s own cock’s noticing _that_ but Sebastian’s never done _this_ before—and Seb’s so _quiet_ —

He’d kissed his husband goodbye before Seb had left for the hotel hosting the Marvel Brain Trust meeting that morning. He’d gone for a run. He’d bought truffles. He’d left said truffles plus instructions about eating for his sweet-at-heart lovely submissive, and imagined Seb’s eyes going all happy and warm and secure in the knowledge of being loved. He’d bounced over to the shelter and happily spent a whole afternoon making sketches and coming up with ideas for an awareness campaign and resisting the urge to bring a puppy or six home, at least not without asking Sebastian first.

Maybe in a year or two. They’ve not exactly been married long. Getting used to each other. A lot to ask. Especially of his other half, who’s so beautiful inside and out and who trips over kneeling-cushions and worries about not being good enough.

Sebastian’s _always_ good enough. That doesn’t mean perfect. Hell, it doesn’t mean that for either of them; Chris is aware he’s a painfully clumsy anxious Dominant who sticks his foot in his mouth on a regular basis. Sebastian, though—

Sebastian doesn’t have to magically become flawless to be everything Chris needs. Sebastian is ridiculous impersonations of Disney animated crabs and the taste of Starbucks iced coffee and eyes like winter-morning holidays and laughter at his own jokes and delicious shy happiness when told he’s adored; Sebastian is gym-honed muscles and soul-deep strength and quiet fairytale ships coming softly gently true to shore, safe at last. If Chris puts his own heart out into the world, Sebastian’s there to cup it in both hands and cradle it and warm it when it shivers and carry it home.

Chris wants to do the same. Chris wants to be the same. For his submissive, for his husband, for the man he loves.

Right now his heart’s breaking. Splintered right apart. Crumpled under the scent of pizza and the shine of gold at his husband’s chest and cock, around the stiff white leather and leash at Sebastian’s throat, a less forgiving and more traditional symbol than they normally use, and Seb’s kneeling in elegant lines on the hard floorboards with that dark head bowed, eyes downcast, and Chris is dying.

“Sebastian,” he croaks, or he thinks he does. Voice not working right. Cracking open like his chest. “Seb, can you—can you tell me what happened? What I did?” Must’ve done something. Has to be him. This is private, personal. “I’m not—I swear I’m not upset with you, if I did anything to make you think—I’m not angry, I’m not—”

Is that right? Does Seb think that? Is Seb trying for forgiveness?

“Please,” he pleads. He touches Sebastian’s hair, fluffy as dandelions under his hand. His submissive doesn’t move, though a barely present swallow of sound escapes. This isn’t Sebastian, Seb who never learned proper protocol and half the time greets Chris by tripping over rugs or stairs, falling into his arms, locking eyes fearlessly and laughing. “Please talk to me, sub.”

Is _that_ right? Does Sebastian want reassurance?

Seb tips his head into Chris’s hand but doesn’t answer right away. Chris breathes, fragile and desperate as torn wedding-sheets, “Look at me, Sebastian. If you can.”

At this Sebastian lifts his gaze. His eyes are wet, crystals staining long lashes, though not running free yet. “Can I touch you? Sir. Chris.”

“Of course yeah, of course—” He’s not sure what Seb wants, but he doesn’t have to guess; his submissive leans forward, still kneeling, and suddenly is pressed up against Chris’s leg, face buried in Chris’s hip, and okay, that’s good, that’s hopeful, they can handle whatever this is. Sebastian’s not scared of him or angry at him and doesn’t seem to think affection’ll be unwelcome, instead just leans weight even closer and holds on even though that must be putting pressure on a clamped nipple, and relaxes more when Chris tentatively pets his hair.

The evening billows out around them, expanding like veils, fluttering like moths in twilight, grey and weightless and carried on a breath. It’s early still, barely six. Sebastian clearly had planned to have dinner ready when his Dominant got home. Sebastian _planned_ this.

Chris offers more petting, pondering this revelation. They haven’t moved out of the entryway; he’s barefoot but dressed, jeans and a casual green t-shirt and a jacket for the faint chill. Sebastian, kneeling against his leg and being caressed, is naked but for the adornments. Sebastian’s weight’s warm nevertheless, heavy, calming at the touch.

Chris could stand here all night and run fingers through that hair. If that’s what Seb needs from him. If that’s what Seb’s asking for.

His heart quivers, on the mend but wobbly as if it’s been twisted, sore and open and desperately generous all at once. He wants to give Sebastian everything. He wants to take care of Sebastian. He wants to be Sebastian’s Dominant, a good Dominant, and take his husband into his care until Seb’s found release and rainbow flight and peace.

He trails fingers down. This collar’s stiffer and less flexible; not as cruel as some options which they’ve never owned, but meant to enforce good posture, designed to accentuate the slimness of Seb’s throat, and decorated with O-rings at front and back, spaces for that leash or for linking wrist cuffs or any other purposes his Dominant might devise. It’d been a gift, after they’d shown up on a talk show with Seb leashed and collared; people sometimes send them things, and this one’d come from a leatherworker who supported the traditional lifestyle but also, said her note, their right to _choose_ that lifestyle.

Sebastian’d sent her a thank-you note. Sebastian’s that sort of person. Even if he’d not yet worn the collar.

Sebastian trembles when Chris’s hand rests over leather, at the nape of his neck. Chris soothes him with more touches, cradling him in place, keeping him right there. “You want to stay here? We can…”

“I made dinner,” Sebastian informs his hip. The words’re warm even through denim, unless that’s Chris’s imagination. “How—how was your afternoon, sir?”

Chris raises eyebrows. Offers, “Good, I got a lot done, I’ll show you if you want, could’ve brought you a kitten, kitten,” and scratches behind the closest ear. Sebastian laughs unevenly. Chris beams. “It’s gonna be a good campaign. Multimedia, adoption drives, adorable animals all over the place, we should show up to the first event, we’re invited, celebrities and all. You, um, you made dinner?”

“Pizza. And salad. And ice cream.” Sebastian’s still not looking at him, but it’s a more comfortable sort of not looking. Head tucked against Chris’s leg. Body less tense.

“You made ice cream?”

“It’s not that hard.” The smile ripples through Seb’s voice. “How do you feel about amaretto and blueberry?”

“Um. Probably good?” His thumb grazes the more visible cheek. “It’s only not hard if you’re you and like a kitchen wizard. Aren’t your knees gettin’ tired?”

Sebastian shakes his head. Leans a little extra weight into his leg. “I’m fine, sir.”

“Are you?”

“I’m…” One hand detaches from Chris’s thigh, lifts, paints an unconsciously graceful half-arc in the air. Sebastian speaks with hands, Chris knows. Gesturing, writing, composing, twisting in restraints, clinging to his Dominant in the aftermath. “I don’t know. It’s complicated. I just want…” A pause, a muttered profanity or two in Romanian. “I don’t have the words, Chris, I’m sorry.”

That’s a message too. Sebastian never needs to apologize for not knowing how to describe reactions he’s never been trained in; Chris has told him so. Chris, in response, murmurs, “Language question or content, I asked you once…”

Sebastian laughs at this reminder of their wedding-night. It’s a real laugh, artwork vibrant through mist. “I speak English, sir. Since I was twelve.” He adds on to the echo, wry and cheerful in a way he’d not been then, “Earlier really, Vienna’s multilingual, and we landed _there_ when I was eight. I did Shakespeare in English and German at school. I never told you that, did I?”

“You told me you spent a year doing study abroad musical work in London.” He pets Seb’s cheek again. “At the Globe, even. Fancy shit. So it’s a content question, then.”

Sebastian smiles more, looping the arm around him. Chris wonders whether Seb’s noticed his Dominant’s half-mast erection through jeans, the halfway stuck point between lingering concern and absolute desire for the very naked submissive attached to his leg and wearing his collar and being brilliant at him. If Sebastian has noticed, no comment’s forthcoming; might not be what he needs yet.

Sebastian says, thoughtfully, “Not even so much that. I know what I’m feeling, I think, but not why, or how it got that way…I need you, Chris. Please.”

“And you got all dressed up for me.” He walks fingers to the leash. Tugs without much force. Sebastian’s eyes sparkle in reply. “I’m just making sure…you are okay, yeah? Tell me as much as you want, whenever you want, but if we’re gonna do this right now I need to know.”

“Yes.” Sebastian’s carried on sparkling at him, but seriously so: acknowledging the concern. “This is feeling good, Chris. I promise.”

“Okay.” He means it. Sebastian means it. And so: they’re okay.

The evening shimmers at them, fog-tinted, mystical, encouraging.

Inside, Chris Evans takes Sebastian Stan’s leash into his hand, coiling white leather around fingers. Sebastian, sitting back on heels, nods once. The collar’s a splash of contrast against his skin; he’s gold and white and tanned, dark hair frisking up to play, cock flushed and pretty in its gold rings between his thighs. He might be a portrait of a classical submissive: lovely and lush and compliant, poised to serve or to wait, at his Dominant’s pleasure.

Because he’s Sebastian, he’s smiling faintly: that mischievous happy mouth quirks up at the corners. He’s _not_ a classical submissive; he’s got opinions, he’s got a career, he’s got sarcasm and playfulness lurking on those lips, and Chris loves him so damn much.

He murmurs, “Come on, then…” and twitches the leash. Sebastian slides to hands and knees, already looking a little dreamy, head lowered.

In the kitchen he discovers pizza, obviously hand-made and delicious. Sebastian’s always been good at composing meals, sandwiches and pastas and desserts like symphonies in the key of edible, woven by musician’s hands. A fleeting arrow of memory lands: the first time Sebastian ever made him a sandwich, the morning after their wedding, and the taste of apples.

Sebastian’s settled very neatly on knees at his side, hands resting on thighs, though one pale happy eye’s visible, darting a glance up at him. Chris thinks about this. “You did have a plan, didn’t you? Show me.”

Sebastian smiles. Sebastian gets up. Sebastian nudges him into a chair, and proceeds to serve him.

And service is the right word. Sebastian’s startlingly graceful—he might’ve practiced this too, and the question tangles in Chris’s throat, both an honor and a worry—and devoutly deferential, precisely the way a trained submissive of thirty or fifty years ago might’ve been, or still might be on highly formal occasions. Sebastian offers him food, stands beside him, holds his beer.

The salad has apple bits in it. They drench every bite in emotion.

Sebastian stays quiet, though with that curious faraway smile, contemplating some horizon Chris can’t see. The next time that his submissive steps in to bring him pizza, Chris loops fingers into the leash. Tugs. “Color.”

“Green,” Seb says, but quietly.

“You sure? Also…” He waves a hand: salad, pizza, beer. One place setting. “You’re not gonna join me?”

Sebastian hesitates. Those eloquent eyes drop toward the floor.

Oh. Oh, God. That’s…

That’s more traditional than he’s ever been. More so than anyone in the whole Evans household has ever been. He’s not sure he’s comfortable with that.

He guesses he’s going to find out. If that’s what Sebastian wants.

He gulps. Straightens shoulders. Authority in place. Right. “Down. Kneel.”

Sebastian drops to both knees. Right there on kitchen tile, beside Chris’s chair. After a second, leans fractionally back against his leg: no longer impeccable form, but who the hell cares. The leash slithers through Chris’s fingers like silk; he keeps hold of the end of it, enough slack that Seb can move around, enough tension to remain a reminder.

Chris then mentally—nearly physically, but he’s holding Seb’s leash, which he remembers at the last second before moving—smacks himself in the forehead. “You, um. Cushion? Floor pad? Something?” He should’ve thought—shouldn’t’ve let Sebastian kneel without comfort—

“I’m fine.” Sebastian sounds kind of small. Not scared, not young exactly, but breakable. Vulnerable. As if the offer of one of their kneeling-cushions, of care from his Dominant, isn’t quite right somehow. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” Chris says, “I do.” Firmness matters, but he’s damn well going to find a compromise. “Go bring back one of your cushions.”

Sebastian takes this in, nods—

“In your mouth.”

His submissive looks briefly shocked, and then appreciative. Which means that Chris is getting something right, something of what his husband’s asking for with all of this. He adds, “I gave you an order,” and plays with the coil of Seb’s leash.

He has an idea. He taps the end of the leash against Seb’s cheek. It’s not hard, not a swing, nothing like he’s done with a flogger over Seb’s back or thighs.

It’s the meaning. Intangible implications. Made tangible.

Sebastian shivers as Chris brushes white leather over his cheek again, over his lips. Their home gets closer and cozier, keeping the moment intimate and hidden and all theirs.

Chris unhooks the leash—“You can have it back when you come back, I don’t want you to get tangled!”—and leans down to spank him once, playing. The black tease of the plug winks at him as Seb goes.

He’s not entirely sure what he expects Sebastian to do: their cushions, like most, have small side handles for essentially this purpose, but he hasn’t specified walking, or using hands and knees, or assistance in picking things up, any of that. He waits, and waits a bit more.

He eyes his pizza. It eyes him right back.

A ribbon of classic rock unspools from the kitchen. One of Sebastian’s playlists, but one with Chris’s kind of music, so plainly also designed for him. A song about love. How sweet it is.

He bounces a leg up and down. He threads the leash between his fingers, gets it tied around his hand, fumbles to undo the accidental knot.

He tries to lean around and see what Sebastian’s doing, without looking like he’s trying to see what Sebastian’s doing, which is an endeavor doomed to utter failure.

What Sebastian turns out to be doing, paused only a few feet away on hands and knees, is giving him an entertained and impressively sarcastic expression around the cushion-handle in his mouth.

Chris’s last lucid thoughts depart for the heavens. Sebastian, his submissive, yielding pliantly for command, pretty mouth stretched wide to bring his own cushion to Chris’s feet because Chris told him to…Sebastian naked with gold rings caging his cock and a thick stern plug keeping him full and tantalized, because Seb’s chosen that…Sebastian still making him, Chris, smile, with just a tilt of that beloved head, the loveliness of that expression…

Smile? He might cry. Not from grief. From overwhelming love.

“Come here,” he manages. Sebastian comes, plops his cushion next to Chris’s left foot, and curls up into that basic kneeling pose again. He nuzzles his head into Chris’s leg, cat-like. Chris runs fingers through his hair. Sebastian leans more weight into him, tranquil.

Chris hooks the leash back on and keeps hold of it. “Good, Seb. So good. My sweet sub.”

Sebastian sighs, someplace between a hum and a _yes, sir_. His eyes look drowsy.

“Such a good boy.” He holds out a bite of pizza; Sebastian nibbles it delicately from his fingers. Chris grins, feeds him a few more bites, leaves fingers resting over those plush lips. “You like eating what I give you, sub? Waiting here on your knees, being patient, taking whatever I decide you should have?”

Sebastian lets out a little moan. His cock’s flushed and hot, though it can’t get more full, caged as it is; even that’s been given over, denied him, awaiting his Dominant’s decision about his pleasure and pain. Chris shifts legs. Tries to maintain authority. His body’s aching to strip away clothes and feel Sebastian’s skin.

He’s also responsible for his submissive. He’s taking care of Seb, because that’s what Seb needs.

He might worry about that—is he good enough, is he doing this right—and he does worry, some, but when he looks at his husband’s enraptured expression the world gets easier. Sebastian wants him. Chris can make Sebastian feel good. That’s a simple truth, a clear-cut task, an imperative at the core of his being.

He says, “Stay,” and gets up to find Sebastian’s homemade ice cream, which is a wonder of amaretto and hazelnut and blueberry and vanilla, a fantasia of sweetness, much like its creator. He has some first—Sebastian wants him to—and then offers a spoon down there. Sebastian opens his mouth obediently, and takes it, and swallows.

“This’s awesome,” Chris tells him, and feeds him some more. “You’re awesome. So good at everything, aren’t you, baby. Making dinner, listening to orders, letting me know you’re safe and eating and happy…on your knees right here, being mine, ready for me to play with you…”

Sebastian sighs. His eyelashes flutter, but he’s awake; some sort of floating blissful submissive trance, content with Chris’s words, Chris’s guidance.

Chris, having had an idea—and wanting to wake his husband up just a bit—suggests, “You like having something inside you, don’t you, sub? That nice big plug, filling you up? Can you make yourself feel it?” His own arousal definitely likes this idea. Wants to be inside Sebastian instead: filling him up, claiming that beautiful willing body and heart, plunging into the space where Seb’s already considerately stretched and slick for use…

And his submissive shifts weight, rocks hips, adjusts position: making the plug move inside him, using the pose to push it deeper, gasping at the change in angle. He keeps his hands in his lap; Chris hasn’t said he can move them.

Chris skims a finger across the ice cream bowl. Holds melted sweetness to Sebastian’s lips.

Sebastian takes that too, licking and sucking at Chris’s fingers as if searching for more cream, hips twitching in place. His mouth’s wet, acquiescent, dazed; so are those beautiful eyes. He keeps his lips parted even when the fingers slip away: asking for more.

“So sweet,” Chris tells him, tilting Seb’s face up. “Everything I could ever want. You know that, yeah? You’re everything I want.” He doesn’t know what prompted this capitulation, this profound sinking into subspace at his feet; he wants to talk about it. But right now Sebastian doesn’t, and more than likely can’t talk, not yet. More, then.

Assurances. Affirmation. Care.

He says, “Don’t bother cleaning up,” and loops the leash into a hand. “I want you. Right here.”

Sebastian looks up but hesitates. Chris hasn’t been entirely clear.

Time to fix that. He stands up. Gets his jeans undone. Shoves boxers out of the way. His cock juts out stiff and ready, inches from Seb’s waiting mouth. Sebastian, continuing to at least pretend to be well trained, doesn’t ask for it. But his eyes beg.

“Go on. But I don’t want to come yet.” Given permission, Sebastian dives forward. Skilled heat engulfs Chris’s length. Seb’s marvelous at this, lips and tongue and throat and no gag reflex at all—that’s part defensive reaction, learned from nights of harsher use at clubs, and part joyous exploration in their own shared bed, and part sheer natural talent. Sebastian loves this, he knows: loves tasting him and pleasuring him, and loves the feeling of a cock in his mouth, down his throat, keeping him stuffed full.

Right now Sebastian’s being _very_ good: knowing what Chris likes, doing all those things, but drawing back right at the edge before desire can drown rationality. Obeying orders.

Chris slips both hands into Seb’s hair. Holds him in place. Sebastian, understanding, relaxes into the grip; Chris takes over, thoroughly fucking that pretty mouth, plundering and laying siege and above all with each thrust announcing that Sebastian’s his. Seb tries to moan, can’t quite make a sound, and softens and melts and becomes even more malleable in his hands.

Chris stops. Pulls back, not all the way, girth teasing his husband’s open mouth. Hand in Seb’s hair. “You like that? You like being mine, sub?” Sebastian makes a hopeful needy sound around the weight; his mouth’s shining and well-used, lips more full than usual. Chris’s cock drips abruptly, a swell of want that slides from his tip to Seb’s tongue. Sebastian’s eyes slip shut and open again in delight.

“I want you in my lap,” Chris explains, “right here, at our kitchen table, where you’ve been taking care of me,” and hauls Seb up off the floor. His right hand finds the plug between the curves of Seb’s pert backside; he leaves his hand there for a second. “Tell me you want that. Tell me what you want, sub.”

Sebastian’s head threatens to loll, body swaying; Chris steadies him. His submissive whispers, “Please fuck me, sir, right here, I want you, Chris…” and Chris draws the fat dark length of the plug from his body, pulls Sebastian down into his lap on the chair, and pushes up into him, one hard indelible motion.

Sebastian cries out, wild and wondering and abandoned to sensation, and clenches around him. Another echo of their wedding-night, Chris remembers dizzily, when he’d learned that his new husband could lose inhibitions and scream in pleasure. A thrill of ecstasy sung for the world.

He gathers Seb close, kept safe in arms, and thrusts: hips snapping together. He’s not gentle because Sebastian doesn’t want that; he’s careful, though. Seb can barely sit up, but clings to him, murmuring incoherently now, broken words that sometimes hold Chris’s name. His poor caged cock, ringed in gold, must be throbbing; each movement of Chris’s cock inside him must be magnified a hundredfold.

Chris puts a hand around him, over the cock-cage. Sebastian screams again, a tiny sort of scream, airless and bewildered by anguish and bliss and surrender.

“I want you,” Chris whispers into his ear, under sweat-damp dark hair, “to come like this. From me fucking you. With your little cock all tied up. Just come from your Dominant’s cock inside you, that’s right, like a good little sub…my good boy, Seb, come for me…”

Sebastian sobs, clings more tightly, and—does come, a shuddering wave, a helpless rippling spasm that leaves him rocking and twitching in Chris’s lap, impaled on Chris’s cock, which keeps pounding that spot inside him. His own cock, bound as it is, begins spilling a liquid white stream; he makes a low wordless sound, something that seems to come from the depths of his soul. He’s crying, but he doesn’t stop moving, either; his hips move mindlessly, his cock nudges Chris’s hand, he’s shaking and coming, cradled in Chris’s lap.

Chris cradles him close. Holds on in awe as Sebastian comes apart around him, completely lost and safely anchored, supported and transformed, flying.

He can’t help moving, plunging deeper, pounding into that delicious welcome: once more, twice, and he’s buried inside his beautiful submissive, tight hot space gripping him while he’s gazing at the divine glory on Seb’s face—and then he’s coming too, his inhales and exhales suddenly faster, balls tightening, everything hurtling toward the peak and Sebastian’s little cries and quivers bringing him over—

He comes inside Sebastian, pouring himself out into his submissive’s body, while Seb moans in delirious euphoria.

He clings to Sebastian for a while, too, in the aftermath. Mutual holding-on. Gathering breath.

The scattered remains of dinner, and Sebastian’s floor-cushion, and the chair under them, collectively beam at this completion. The sunset beyond the window approves. It washes them clean with rose and indigo light.

Sebastian’s in no shape to talk or move. Chris works the thick black plug back into him—holding the remains of his own climax inside—and scoops him up. Seb’s not small, but Chris is strong, and Chris can absolutely heroically carry his submissive. Yes.

He takes Seb upstairs. Into the bedroom. Into bed; and he’s panting slightly and wondering whether Seb’ll mind if he collapses too, but then his submissive makes a small sound and stirs against the bedding, acres of bare skin over night-blue silk sheets, and, okay. Maybe they’re not done. Not quite yet.

He strokes Sebastian’s hip. He toys with the plug, gets a moan. He eases Seb onto his back and taps one of those clamped nipples. Sebastian sobs, opens eyes, finds him, focuses after a second or two.

“Hey,” Chris ventures, hushed.

“Chris…”

“Yeah. More? Or are you done?” He curls himself up face to face with those cloudy winter-sea eyes and runs a hand over Seb’s thigh, just barely not touching more sensitive places. “Color?”

Sebastian blinks. “Green…I don’t…I’m not…I can’t think. More, I think, but I…whatever you want, Chris, I’m yours, please…” His voice is ragged, lyrical grace scraped raw: signs and markers of what they’ve done. What he’s asked for.

“Please claim you? Use you? Want you?” He kisses Seb’s nose. “All of those. Also I love you, sub. Seb. I love you, Seb.”

And those lips curve into an exhausted smile. “Love you, Chris.”

“A _little_ more. I’m gonna take this, and these, off you. That okay?” His hands caress nipple clamps, the restraints around Seb’s poor tormented cock and balls. “You want me to make you feel it? To know you’re mine?”

“Yes,” Sebastian sighs, eyes drifting shut again, whole body drifting: that deep submissive serenity, unadulterated love and trust. “Yes, please.”

“So polite. _Such_ a good boy.” That’s a more traditional endearment, but they’ve used it before; Seb’s definitely in that sort of mood tonight. Chris unclips the leash, leaves the collar on, unfastens everything else as gently as he can. Sebastian still gasps when the clamps come off, when sensation stampedes back in, and when his reddened and sensitive cock’s released from bindings. New tears glitter in those eyes; Chris pauses everything to gather him close and soothe him.

He leaves Seb on the bed with an order to stay put. He dives into their toys. He comes back.

Sebastian’s lips part at the weight of wrist cuffs. Even more so when Chris guides his hands to the back of his neck, and takes advantage of various fasteners. Seb breathes out, one long slow somnolent exhale, and goes nearly boneless, compliant and easy to arrange, liquid as melted sugar.

Chris Evans, sitting on the edge of their bed with his husband across his lap, with starlight and city lights twinkling in to decorate the scene, breathing evening air and sex and the heat of loving and being loved, says, “You remember the morning after we got married, and you said you liked being spanked, and I said we were gonna find out what you look like when you are…”

“Yes,” Sebastian moans into the sheets. “Yes, Chris, please.”

“You don’t have to count. I’ll decide when we’re done. But if you need to come—if you think you can—” He’s not sure whether that’ll be the case, but he’s wrung multiple orgasms out of his submissive before. “You ask permission for that.”

“Yes, sir.” Seb’s voice is blurry, cheek cradled by blue silk, carried aloft by languor. Chris spares a second to let his chest fill up with pride. He’s doing this. He’s being what Sebastian needs.

He always will be. An anchor-point, a Dominant, if Sebastian needs that. A hand to hold if Sebastian needs that. A heart that’s so much Seb’s that it some days barely feels like Chris’s own, untethered and tap-dancing in delight. Every time one of those smiles shoots his way. Every time his phone lights up with a text. Every time he remembers all over again that Sebastian Stan’s in his life and chose to be his husband, a secret giddy joy rockets down his spine.

It does that now, too. Just to make him grin. To make his toes curl with gladness.

Sebastian chose him. Sebastian wants him. Never not incredible, that.

He rubs one hand over Sebastian’s ass. Seb, hands locked to his collar, squirms.

Chris brings the hand down. With conviction.

His hands’re large and Sebastian’s skin takes a spanking so readily: pink at first, then red, marks of ownership and capitulation printed in undeniable color. Seb moans and wriggles, cock pressed against Chris’s thigh, half-hard and hot and wet-tipped; he arches hips into each impact at first, beckoning, requesting more. That’s good, that’s what they’ve needed: something intense, splendid, unequivocal. Chris’s hand tingles. Resonance: physical and emotional, seared into his skin.

He keeps a mental count at first, but loses track; Sebastian starts crying, genuinely crying, somewhere around fifteen. Chris stops instantly. “Sebastian? Can you talk? Color?”

“Green,” his husband gets out around the tears, a sniffle, a gulp. “It’s…I feel…please, sir, please don’t stop, _please_ …”

Catharsis. Emotions broken open. Reactions laid bare and accepted and loved. Sebastian, quivering on his lap, is giving Chris all of himself, every involuntary sob and clutch of bound fingers at the air. Every breath, every cry at each spank, sizzling and annealing and cleansing, leaving them both alive and renewed.

So. More. Harder.

Sebastian gradually stops outright crying. His weight grows more heavy, his squirms more languid. He sighs when Chris strokes his back, and again when Chris pinches his ass, squarely in the center of burning red. Chris asks, curious, “Does that hurt?”

Sebastian shakes his head, possibly nonverbal. Evidently beyond any pain. Transmuted through billowing alchemy into rainbows and fluffy clouds of delicious spun sugar.

“Huh.” He does it again. Seb only moans and spreads his legs further. His cock’s harder now, nudging Chris’s thigh. “You know this isn’t a punishment, right? I’m not correcting you, or—or whatever. Nothing’s wrong.” He scratches nails lightly across the other upturned cheek. White and then pink fill in the lines. Sebastian whimpers. “Tell me you know.”

“I know that.” Vague, half-focused, full of pleasure; that voice sends an unexpected pulse of want into Chris’s gut. “I feel good, sir. Everything’s so…good. ’M yours.” 

“Yes,” Chris agrees, heart taking wing inside his body, “yes, you are, my good boy,” and spanks him hard, both sides and then centered: right over the toy that’s keeping him full, where Chris has already fucked him and made him come in golden agony and spilled inside him. With force enough to make his submissive cry out.

When he does it again Sebastian begs. Voice fractured. On the brink. “Chris…sir…I’m…I need…”

“You want to come, sub?”

“Yes, please…”

“You’re being so good, aren’t you? Waiting for permission.”

“Yes, Chris.”

“You want to come like this, while I spank you? All over my lap, because you just can’t wait, you need to come right where you are, the second I let you?”

“Please…” Sebastian’s crying again, but it’s good, Chris can hear it, can feel it in each tiny tremor and tangible plea.

He says, low and rough and certain, “I love you, Sebastian, you can come, go ahead, come for me.”

Sebastian’s hips jerk; Chris lands another swift volley of spanks across his ass, carrying him through it, feeling the sudden hot slippery rush against his thigh, watching Seb’s back and arms tense and his backside tighten.

Sebastian goes utterly limp after, slack and docile and half-awake; his breathing’s slow but regular, eyes half-open and faraway. Chris pets him for a while, keeps him in place, talks to him: silly ramblings, babblings about how wonderful Seb is, how perfect, how marvelous, how much Chris loves him and this life and the whole damn world and their bed and pizza and the night outside. Sebastian makes soft stray sounds on occasion, clearly higher than stars, and nuzzles into him after he takes off wrist cuffs and collar, mouthing aimlessly at Chris’s collarbone. Chris laughs because the love’s sweeping him up in it, tumbling and poignant, coruscating and overjoyed, and kisses his husband’s hair.

The night gets darker, more poignant, velvety blue. Seb’s real and sticky and nestled against him. They’ll need to shower and wash the sheets. They’ll need to feed Seb something to replenish energy. They’ll need to talk. But right now he’s got a hand in weary dark curls and exhilaration humming through his bones. The bedroom shimmers like a watercolor, a painting done in white leather and midnight sheets and a tangle of discarded cheering gold.

Sebastian wakes up bit by bit, hazy but trusting, eyes heartbreakingly young and innocent behind tear-damp lashes. That winter-morning color catches Chris’s heart. Does that every time. Forever will. “…Chris?”

“Yeah.” He squeezes his submissive a bit tighter. “Right here.”

“That…that was…”

“Still good? Tell me if not. If there was anything. Anything you wanted, or didn’t want, or—”

“Good.” Seb gives a kind of full-body shiver: coming back. “I don’t know how I feel. Sparkly. Illuminated. Like—” He buries his face in Chris’s chest for a second, laughing. “God. Thank you, thank you, I—oh, Chris. I love you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Chris says, “I got to be here with you,” and runs a hand over his back. “Was that…it was good for me too, don’t think it wasn’t, don’t take this wrong, okay, I love you and that was fucking unbelievable. But you…when I got home, you seemed…you wanted this, right? This was what you wanted?” What you wanted from me. What I could give you. What I hope I gave you. I hope I did it right.

Sebastian resurfaces. Laughter keeps on brimming over from those eyes, weightless and radiant. Moonbeams and starshine. Luminous fairy-stories come down to settle in their bed. Magic at Chris’s side. “Yes. More than I ever thought—yes.”

“And…it…wasn’t because you thought I wanted you to—I don’t mean I didn’t like it, I mean I don’t want you to think you have to—if I ever, fuck, made you think I wanted you to be more—I know you never learned, you never wanted—”

“Chris.” Sebastian walks a hand up, flattens it over Chris’s heart. “I know you didn’t ask me for this. I wanted to try.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris kneels there on the bed, their wonderful supportive welcoming bed, and gazes at his husband, and is humbled, and in love. Sebastian’s incandescent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all of you, who've been on this amazing fic-journey with me and these boys. This whole universe wouldn't be what it is without you; I mean that. I've gotten to be a better writer because of you, I've made wonderful friends because of this fic, I've had so many conversations with so many incredible people, and so - thank you. For everything. I don't have good words.
> 
> Also, we're not a hundred percent done - there's at least one more Extra Sugar bonus scene that I've had planned for a while, so that will be coming along. (It's the one in which there's a minor emergency while Chris is away from home, and they end up having to actually call Chris's Mom in as Seb's emergency Dominant, in the hospital.) And I won't say _never_ to more, if there's an idea for a bonus scene or AU version that catches my writing-brain's interest...no promises, but possibilities!
> 
> I love you.

_Sebastian_

His own words hang in the air: indigo and silver, tinted by love. Chris, cuddling him close, gazes at him with endearing awe and dawning hope. Sebastian, secure in snug arms, adds, “I do love you, you know. _Te iubesc._ On my knees. In all my languages.”

“All your languages.” Chris might be attempting not to laugh or not to cry. “You wanted to try. Just to—to know how it felt? To follow strict protocol?”

“To know how it felt, and how I felt, and what I might like or not like. And what you like.” He stretches a leg out, taps toes against his Dominant’s ankle. “Or what you might not like. We can’t know unless we try things.”

“Yeah, but some of that shit’s like super-formal. You getting fed on the floor at my feet, not at the table with me…not looking at me…” Chris clears his throat: distress evident in the harbor. That Boston accent’s heavier: concern thickening the stories, the narratives. “I don’t know if I can. Not if—you’re not going to want that every day?”

The question’s forlorn. Tattered flags in the breeze.

Sebastian promptly extends needle and thread. Sewing up wounds with his answer. “No, I’m not. I like looking at you, you might’ve noticed. And I don’t mind sitting at your feet, but not every day, I think. I _like_ chairs and tables.”

This surprises a laugh out of his Dominant. Good.

“I think,” Sebastian goes on, working this out as he talks, truth in words and pauses, “I like…being yours. Knowing that I’m yours. I like that being enforced…it reminds me that this is real. That I’m not…” He hasn’t quite meant to say this part. He can’t not say it now. He finishes in a rush, “That I’m not by myself. When I’m alone. When I want to be someone’s. When everything’s too big and too good and I’m just me and I’m scared that’s not enough. You tell me that it is. That I am.”

Chris catches breath: a sob, a gulp of tears. “Sebastian—you are, you are, God, you’re fuckin’ _everything_ —”

“That’s why.” He’s shivering, he notices with some surprise. Aftermath, and emotion. “Because you tell me that I’m good, you give me orders I can follow, you correct me if I’m _not_ good, and you take care of me. I want to be yours, Chris.”

“You are!” Chris’s arms get even more fiercely tight around him. “You _are_. You don’t have to do any of that—”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? I don’t have to. But if I want to…if I want you to—to, I don’t know, keep me tied to the bed and use me whenever you decide to, or put me on my knees and fuck my mouth the second you come home—don’t make that sound, those’re examples, sir—not that I’d necessarily mind either—”

“You said you get scared.” Chris’s voice cracks. “I knew something was wrong, today, I knew—I shouldn’t’ve let you—”

“I’m fine.” Sebastian wriggles around. Ends up mostly lying atop his Dominant, gazing down. Chris’s arms stay around him. “I was—anxious, perhaps. Not about you, or us. I promise. I promise that, Chris, I know you love me and I love you and I’m safe with you. Only…for a minute…it was so much. Everything I could’ve ever wanted. I _have_ everything.”

“But then if it was too much…” Chris watches his face, ocean-floor eyes caught by tides of dismay. “You wanted more?”

“I wanted to know…” He pauses again, rearranges words. “I needed to feel it. Inside and out. All I could feel. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah.” Chris swallows, moves a hand, trails it along Sebastian’s jaw. Feather-light, and loving. “You needed me to be your whole world, kinda. Not really, of course not really, but for a while. Everything you are, belonging to me. Me taking care of you.”

“Or me taking care of you. Hence dinner and serving you. I might’ve offered a foot massage if you were in the mood.”

Chris’s eyes narrow, pick up on the teasing, get happier. “Never actually had a sub do that for me. That’s part of the—the losing yourself, right? The service part? Focusing on me?”

“I’d try if you wanted me to. Although I never learned massage skills, so it’d be at your own peril. And yes. It’s not about my needs—except it is, that _is_ what I needed, which is why I tried—it’s about me serving your needs. Whether you want me peeling grapes for you or bending over across our bed.” He’s still thinking vaguely about the being tied to the bed all day fantasy. Being used for Chris’s pleasure and at Chris’s whim, unable to move or get up or come unless permitted…

“Okay.” Chris tips that head up, kisses him, flops back down. “I can kinda get that. But what if what I need is to take care of you? Like, I don’t want you to not talk to me if something’s even sort of wrong. And maybe I want to just…make you feel really, really good. Do subs seriously have to know how to peel grapes? Is that a thing?”

“It is in seventy-year-old Dominant/submissive tastelessly exotic pulp-fiction erotica. If that’s what you want—not the grapes, the other part—then tell me so. I want you to tell me, so I can be good for you. But I’m hardly opposed to you making me feel good.” He peeks down at Chris, gets nose to nose, throws in, “What do you think you just did?”

Chris’s grin starts slow and ends up dazzling. “Really _really_ good?”

Sebastian rolls eyes exaggeratedly. “Yes, sir. Stupendously good. Spectacularly good. _Tremendously_ good—”

Chris flips them over, laughing out loud now. Sebastian lands on his back amid pillows, his Dominant a welcome chortling weight atop him, silk sheets cool as water against his skin. Chris kisses the corner of his mouth, the spot under his jawline, his throat. Bites, not hard, a scrape of teeth and pressure right where his collar’d been. “Tremendous?”

“Massive?” Sebastian suggests, wriggling just to get Chris to pin him down and nibble some more. “Other synonyms for extremely impressive? Do you want me to tell you again that sex with you is the best I’ve ever had, because I feel as if I’ve already said so—”

This time Chris cuts him off with a kiss, purposeful and penetrating but unhurried about it. “Brat. Okay, seriously, though, real quick. Some of that, yeah, I like you being all…naked and ready for me, following orders, coming when and how I want you…”

“Yes, please.”

“Might have to talk about orgasm control. Could be a permanent rule. Only when I let you. Makin’ you wear something around the house. Anyway my point was, um, some of that…”

Sebastian’s body’s in an odd confused state. Exhausted, wrung out by two draining climaxes and associated emotions, but also, and importantly, oh fuck yes. Chris heavy atop him, talking about control, talking about taking over that aspect of his body…not that he’s been getting off without Chris, no desire to, but making it a formal rule, an outright unequivocal and daily rule…

His cock reminds him that it’s a bit oversensitive, aching, shifting, wanting to fill but unsure.

Because Chris appears to be hunting for words, he contributes, “You don’t like me being subservient. Not your equal.”

“Yes!” Chris kisses him once more for that. “Thank God you know words, you know everything, I can’t even fuckin’ speak sometimes…yeah, that. I like you being submissive, we like you being good for me, but you’re not less than me. And some of that—we can do some of it, more strict protocol, keeping you on your knees and on a leash and all that, when you feel like you need it. But I don’t want you to keep your head down or stay quiet or stay down there without a fucking cushion when our floor’s fucking hard and I know it’s gonna hurt after a while. Um. Sorry.”

“For what? I like you caring about me. We can do that. We did, I thought.”

“Yeah, but I want to make sure you know why. And I’m…” Chris sighs, drops his face into Sebastian’s neck. Mumbles into hair and a pillow-corner, “I can’t hurt you. Fuckin’…limits, okay. Yellow, at least. If not red.”

Sebastian, horrified, gulps, “You didn’t say—”

“No, shit, like, not exactly—!” Chris bolts back up, interrupting. “Not like—I’d’ve said it then if you’d pushed. If you hadn’t listened when I wanted you to be comfortable. You did, so I didn’t, but _I_ wasn’t comfortable with you, um, not caring.”

Sebastian turns this idea over gingerly. His husband, his Dominant, cares that much. So much that Sebastian’s own comfort, or lack thereof, is a slow down and check in at the very least. Quietly revolutionary, that concept. “…oh.”

“Oh, that makes sense, or oh, my Dominant’s a giant moron who can’t get this right…?”

“Oh as in I hadn’t thought about that part. I’m thinking about it now.” He’s still lying on his back under Chris; he raises eyebrows. “And I think you’re getting this very right.”

“I don’t know.” Chris’s eyes and voice puddle with dejection, with wanting to believe, with wishing. “You’ve done more than I ever have. More intense. And I panic about you on your knees on the floor.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“You—”

“I’ve never done this with someone who loves me. Who might care if my knees end up sore.” He loops a leg around Chris’s waist: holding on. “I like it. I like being taken care of, I think. I like being able to take care of you—being good for you, serving you—but I also like you rewarding me. Making me feel safe and wanted and…”

“Taken care of?”

“Well. Yes.”

“I always want to make you feel that,” Chris promises, one hand coming up to cradle Sebastian’s head. “I’ll always try. I love you.”

“I love you. I don’t know if I can say I always have—” He tilts his head into the petting, shameless about it, wanting more and knowing that Chris loves him wanting more. “—I mean, you know I was scared. At first. You know why. But I can say that I had hope. When you wrote to me, when you came to hear me play. When you told me at our wedding that you’d be willing to call it off if I couldn’t clearly say yes. I thought, then…I hoped. Because of you.”

“Oh, Seb.” Wetness glimmers along Chris’s eyelashes: that big transparent heart laid bare. Given into Sebastian’s hands for safekeeping. “That’s…that…I don’t know what to say. I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

Sebastian arches an eyebrow at him. “Weren’t we just discussing you being more strict, and me not being in charge? Yes, you can. Please do, sir.”

Chris, between kisses—everyplace, his mouth and his throat and his collarbone—mutters words: _such a brat, God, love you, mine, thank you._ The words land like bird’s-wings, like dandelion fluff, like wishes come true. Sebastian laughs because he’s happy and being kissed and wonderful, full of wonder, whole body tingling with elation, and Chris’s beard scrapes across his skin, and he laughs more.

Chris pauses. Traces a finger along his forearm. “Love seeing you like this.”

“Naked underneath you?”

“Yeah. Should make it a rule. Stay naked. Easy to pet.” Action follows words: Chris runs hands all over him, shoulder to hip, over his stomach, along his inner thighs. Sebastian willingly lets them fall further apart, not quite a conscious movement, simply desiring. Chris takes his cock in hand, not a cruel grip but undeniable. “I meant smiling. In bed. The way you look right now. Like Christmas morning.”

“Like I’ve just unwrapped everything I never knew enough to want.”

“Beautiful.” Chris caresses tender vulnerable flesh. Sebastian whimpers less from the physical touch than the emotional: himself on display, wet-tipped and raw and exposed, a submissive given over to his Dominant, being toyed with by those large hands. “How sore are you?”

“Um…oh, _sir_ —ah…some. Not much. I like this.”

“You do, don’t you?” Chris rubs a thumb slowly over his slit, where he’s emptied himself already upon command: in his Dominant’s lap while caged and bound, orgasm milked from his body with that thick cock inside him, and again while lost in the transcendence of being spanked hard. He’s sticky and shivering with sensation. “You like being mine. Being traditional, today. Maybe not every day, but some days. When you feel like that. Belonging to me. Being so sweet, so good, whatever I decide to do with you.”

“Yes, please.”

“You, your body, your cock…” Chris digs fingernails into flesh: not too much, but enough to make him gasp. He’s unsure whether that’s pain or pleasure. He’s not certain there’s a difference; his body’s dissolving into a haze of anguish and ecstasy, merciless as a kiss of molten gold. Chris watches his face. “Mine.”

Sebastian nods, glowing everywhere, radiant.

Chris muses, “You did say traditional,” and takes his arms and moves them: above his head, in place. “Stay.”

Sebastian stays.

He ends up fastened to their headboard. The rope’s long and thick and satiny, black and good quality, luxurious; his Dominant has always been good with ropes and cords and knots. Sebastian can’t move, couldn’t move regardless; his limbs’ve gone heavy, clumsy, too hard to stir. Chris skims fingers over his bare throat, considers, steps away to drawers and playchests, returns.

A collar. Their first-ever collar, black with the kindly plush blue lining. Sebastian turns his head, someplace between a conscious motion and an unplanned need to twist and writhe and feel it against his throat. Chris has to hold him in place, fastening it. “Color?”

“Mmm. Green. I feel…I’m…I don’t know. This feels different…”

“Different good, or not?”

“Good.” Languid, relaxed, floating on heartbeats and the knowledge that Chris will give him whatever he needs. He isn’t certain he can come again, or maybe he can; it’s not an urgent pull but a lapping tide, deep serene waters cradling him the way Chris does…the way Chris touches him, pets him, soothes him…the way he likes, he likes this, he likes Chris, his Dominant…

“Seb,” Chris says, mildly amused, not quite apprehensive, “you kinda stopped making words. Those _aren’t_ words.”

Sebastian frowns a little. He can’t recall when syllables turned into murmurs, mumbles, uncoordinated sounds. “Chris.”

Chris laughs. “At least you know I’m still here.”

“Always.” He’d reach for his Dominant but can’t right now. He wriggles in place instead. “Yours. So. That means you’re here. With me. I like you here with me.”

He’s not sure why Chris’s eyelashes are damp when they sweep down and up, or why Chris makes a low noise and swipes a hand over his own face, but then Chris is kissing him as if nothing else matters in the world, so nothing else does matter. Chris’s mouth is hot and determined and seemingly intent on claiming every atom of him, licking and nibbling and tasting and conquering. Sebastian loves this, loves being swept away and plundered, and he yields all of himself gladly for his husband.

Chris stops kissing him to breathe, “God, I love you,” nose bumping his, and Sebastian smiles more and nods and even laughs aloud, because he feels so good, so free, so cherished.

Chris taps fingers over his left thigh, sitting up. “You did say you wanted more…want me to do your legs, too?”

Sebastian blinks at him. Whatever you want, he tries to say, I’m yours, you can do anything you want with me. The words won’t form. Indistinct.

“Seb,” Chris says.

“Yes,” Sebastian manages. “Sir. Please. I…I need…I think I need…I don’t know. I want…please help me. Sir.”

“Oh, Seb,” Chris says again. “You always needed this, didn’t you? Such a sweet little sub, and nobody ever knew, nobody guessed, you kept that secret so well. But that’s all you ever wanted. Someone to be good for. And you picked me.” His voice resonates with emotion: amazement, reverence, new-morning delight. “You fuckin’ wanted _me_. Out of everyone.”

“Please,” Sebastian begs. He’s not entirely following. His body’s feeling strange: shivery and restless, pleading and wanting and yet somehow faraway, dim and contented, peaceful in the awareness that he can do nothing but wait for what Chris gives to him. His collar wraps around his throat and feels right there. His cock stirs, swells, drips: a smear of wet against his skin. His hips move a fraction, unbidden. “Sir…Chris…I feel…I need you, please, please help, I don’t know what…how…this feels…”

“You need more?” Chris touches his lips, traces them, slips two fingers into his mouth. Sebastian whimpers, suckles on them, nods desperately. The fingers help. His mouth is full. He is occupied. He likes that: when Chris gives him something to do.

Chris laughs, sighs, gazes at him. “I don’t want to hurt you. But you…God, lookin’ at you, hearing you beg me to help you, take care of you, the way you want…knowing I can do this for you…”

Chris’s cock’s stiff and flushed, jutting upward: evidence of how much he likes this too. Sebastian moans as best he can around the fingers muffling his mouth. Chris smiles, tells him, “More, okay, got it, sub,” and takes the fingers away.

Sebastian whines. Chris says, mock-sternly, “Shh, sweet boy,” and holds out a vibrator, not too large, not turned on yet. “Hold this for me.” He puts it into Sebastian’s open mouth. Sebastian hums vaguely and shifts against silken sheets. His mind’s cloudy, cuddled in satin ropes, mouth kept full.

Chris lifts his legs. Ties them up and spread: he’s bent nearly in half, cock and balls and entrance exposed, where Chris has already come inside him, keeping him stretched with the fat dark plug he’d chosen himself earlier. Chris had eased that toy out of his body earlier, caring for him post-spanking. Sebastian’s hole flutters, empty, yearning.

“So impatient.” But his Dominant approves; Chris is grinning. “And so good. Holding this so nicely. You can keep holding it for me, sub, right _here_.” The vibrator pushes easily inside him. It’s big but he’s still slick and open from earlier, and his body draws it in greedily. “I’m gonna play with you more, okay? You said you liked it, and I do too, and if you want—if we’re bein’ all traditional tonight, then your body’s mine too, so I’m gonna do that. You can come if you want, if you can, you have permission. If I’m doin’ something to you that makes you come, let it happen.”

Sebastian can’t hold back the gasp. Yes, yes, yes. Please. So right. Please.

“Stop me,” Chris says quietly, “if you need to.” And their eyes meet: Sebastian, even lost in iridescence, remembers Chris’s _yellow_ , earlier. Chris’s limits aren’t the same as his. They involve him getting hurt, or allowing himself to be hurt.

He knows. He knows Chris Evans; he knows himself; he knows the way they fit together, body and soul.

He nods.

Chris nods back, and drops a sudden swift kiss on the tip of his nose. “Right. Okay, then, sub, you asked for it.”

The vibrator shifts to high. Sebastian cries out involuntarily, arching in bonds. His cock jumps and pulses, overwrought but shuddering with pleasure. The vibrator’s long enough, thrust in deep enough, to press remorselessly against that spot inside him; he _hurts_ with bliss, thunderclaps wrenched from his body, making him sob and spasm against restraints.

Chris’s hand finds his cock again. Gathers him up and fondles him as he cries and squirms, subsumed beneath the onslaught and helpless to do anything other than submit to his Dominant’s inexorable tormenting caresses.

“Good boy,” Chris praises, petting his cock, pausing to pay attention to the hanging weight of his balls; then stroking him lightly, up and down. His length is growing wet, as a few scorching drips and dribbles trickle forth, coaxed by his Dominant’s skill.  “So good. So good for me, Seb, Sebastian, my sub.”

Something happens in his head, then; he’s not sure what, but he’s whimpering and sobbing and overwhelmed, and then he’s not overwhelmed anymore, only awash with glorious tranquility. Everything’s soft and white and gold and blurry, like drunken halos; he can feel his own tears streaking his cheeks, can feel the lovely ropes holding him where Chris wants him, can feel his collar encircling his throat, marking him as Chris’s submissive, and he submits completely.

He can sense his heartbeat, his pulse, the throb in his veins and the glorious feelings around his cock, his balls, his shaft and the tip where Chris is pressing a fingernail to his slit, a glittering spike like scarlet sun through the frothy heavenly clouds. He thinks he can feel that same pulse-beat in his hole, and he tightens around the nice rigid toy there as it purrs inside him. His eyelids feel heavy; he lets them droop, half-open, not seeing anything, only feeling.

He makes a small broken sound when Chris slaps his cock—still not hard, lightly, lightly, but it feels like a thousand more of those sunbursts erupting, centered there between his legs—and then Chris is murmuring words of praise and stroking his shaft again, alternating gentleness and hurt while the vibrations continue deep within him, and Sebastian’s whole body seems to become liquid and melt and flow away. He feels more wetness abruptly flood over himself; he is coming, or something like an orgasm, but like nothing he’s ever felt. His cock spills its last impossible reserves in a torturous slow release, his body drawing up and tightening and then going limp even as clear thin drops continue to slide from his tip, over Chris’s patient hand, across feverish skin.

He’s adrift, unthinking, utterly surrendered. He has no control over the waves of climax, the grip on his cock, the futile jerks his body makes in its ties. This feeling makes him come more, or harder, or more deeply: a shining profound grace and gratefulness as euphoria ripples through him. He belongs to Chris and Chris knows what he needs and is making him feel these things and telling him words in that beloved voice, words he can’t make out but which he knows are full of praise and love.

He shudders with the next wave, and the next, borne away into the rhythmic clenching of his hole and the strange white-hot pulse of his cock, nothing left to drain dry, ceaselessly toyed with; only a kind of openmouthed speechless ecstasy that lulls him like the ocean, rocking him into a buoyant billowy horizon.

He feels, distantly, Chris turning the vibrations off. He whines. He does not know why.

Something else presses into him along with the hard toy. Fingers. Chris’s fingers. More than one. Coaxing, rubbing, stretching. Sebastian’s mouth falls more open, making tiny random sounds. Chris has lube as well, or something wet and slick, at least. The lube feels nice. It makes his hole feel nice, slippery and warming. Chris puts some on his tired aching cock too, that length shifting and softening between his thighs, and strokes him another time or two and that feels nice in a different way, odd and hurting but good, especially when Chris tells him that he _is_ good, he’s beautiful and incredible and so, so good, taking everything, taking it all.

Sebastian thinks he might be a bit delirious. Drowning in rhapsodies of silk sheets and the kind ocean-blue of Chris’s eyes when they bend down to check on him. Made of melody, songs, symphonies. Becoming a composition, an aria, a tune. Played so well by his Dominant.

The bed’s sturdy under him, and the evening’s hushed as a temple. He must be dreaming; he can feel the whole world and the oncoming night. Stars outside, twinkling into being amid city lights. Stars up in the sky, beaming enthusiastically down. Stars inside his body. The stars are singing too.

 

_Chris_

Chris kneels there on the bed, their wonderful supportive welcoming bed, and gazes at his husband, and is humbled, and in love. Sebastian’s incandescent.

He moves fingers, testing, exploring. Sebastian moans, head rolling blindly from side to side. His body clenches and then relaxes: around the penetration of the vibrator, and around Chris’s fingers, three of them, pressed in alongside. His pretty cock, no longer hard, twitches in vain. Chris soothes him, touches his hip, provides low-voiced reassurances. How good Sebastian’s being, how astonishing, how beautiful.

His voice isn’t soft simply to fit the moment. No, that’s pure awe.

He considers his husband, watching each half-conscious quiver and somnolent exhale. Sebastian’s very far away now, afloat in the deepest glowing realms of subspace, languorous and pliant and trusting. His eyes are half-open but not processing: hazy, drowsing. He mumbles a few sounds that aren’t words when Chris caresses his cock, cups his balls, takes a grip on him.

That’d been a lot, so much to ask, the hurt and the pleasure and the evident lightning-bright mouth-open drawn-out dry orgasm, as his submissive went rigid in restraints and shuddered and shook and tried to convulse with it, prevented by bonds from curling up in agony and delight as the sensations went on and on.

Sebastian right now whines as Chris trails a finger across his shaft, but tries to lift exhausted hips into the touch anyway. His climax—what few drops had been left to wring from him—is drying across his stomach. He’s damp with exertion and desire. He looks like precisely what he’s asked to be: a splendid classical submissive, bound up for use, for a Dominant’s pleasure.

Chris’s heart aches with love suddenly, sharp and ferocious. A stab to the chest. A broken rib. A throb too poignant to contain in a cage of bone.

Sebastian _has_ asked. Had gotten on both knees when Chris had come home, and had made dinner, and had knelt at his feet to be fed.

That stab redoubles. A twist of love. He doesn’t know how to do this, how to want this. Sebastian’s his other half, his serenity, his safety net. Sebastian smiles at him and tells him that they’ll be fine, that Chris’s anxiety and stress are all just pieces of who he is, and that Seb loves every piece. Chris believes that. Beyond question.

And Sebastian is choosing this. Now. With him. Sebastian has a choice.

Sebastian’s said it: I want to try. I want to know. For me.

Chris’s heart puts itself back together, wrapped up in bandages the same cool joyous rain-hue of his husband’s eyes.

He rubs his other hand along Seb’s inner thigh, soothing, calming. His submissive lets out a small plaintive drop of sound, inadvertent and almost innocent in its simplicity. The base of the vibe, switched off now, blooms prettily from Seb’s body, with Chris’s hand beside it. He contemplates this, and then slides the toy out, done with that for now. Sebastian murmurs something else wordless, drunk on intensity, on overstimulation, on his own capitulation to Chris’s demands.

Chris does have an idea. He moves his hand, repositions, makes one more demand. Sebastian’s unprotesting and compliant for the invasion, that entrance lube-slick and ready, wanting him. They’ve done this before but not much; this time’s easy, though. Sebastian takes his fingers, his hand, his fist, without any discomfort, opening up for even the widest part.

Chris moves the fist inside him, moves and feels Seb around him, breath catching at the sight, the feeling, the gift of this. His arm disappearing into his husband’s body. His hand in Seb, drawing back a bit, pushing in again.

Sebastian groans, a low uncomprehending sound. His eyelashes flutter. His body tightens, finding some awareness, or if not awareness at least reaction. His cock’s limp, over-used and over-sensitive, but that’s lovely too: he asked for more, asked for his Dominant to help him over the edge. Chris Evans will always want to give Sebastian Stan whatever he asks for.

He whispers, shifting the fist slightly, “Can you feel that, baby? My whole hand, inside you…you’re being so good, taking it all, I’m so proud of you. My Sebastian. Can you see this, me in you, if you look…”

Sebastian tries to lift his head, obedient to the words. He can’t do it for long, but he can see enough: Chris’s arm between his thighs, the gleam of lube on skin when Chris pulls back a little and then shoves back in. The sound’s luscious, Seb’s body and slippery flesh and his own spontaneous groan.

Sebastian whimpers. Rocks in place with the fist inside him, as much as he can, head falling back. Chris whispers, “Are you coming, sub, is that you coming for me, nothin’ left in your pretty little cock but you can feel it, can’t you, you gettin’ off on this, me with my hand in you, making you mine, and you love that, don’t you, you could just come and come for me, just like this, tied up and told to get off…”

Sebastian makes a different sound this time, as if the words’ve been a physical command; his body quakes and trembles from head to toes as his eyes close. He sinks into the bed and the bondage after, unmoving other than intermittent twitches, uncontrolled tiny flashes of erotic ecstasy.

Chris’s own cock is agonizingly hard, upright and leaking and throbbing against his stomach. The sight, the sounds, yeah, but not only that. The certainty. The knowledge that he’s done this to and for Sebastian. The man he loves.

The collar he’s picked is their oldest. The wedding-collar. The first one. He’d tied Seb up then too, only one arm, because his submissive had needed an anchor and had asked. They hadn’t known enough, then. They’d stumbled and made mistakes, not insurmountable ones but present enough. Sebastian had wept. Chris had held him. Sebastian had let himself be held.

He draws his hand out cautiously, gradually, though his submissive’s so far under by now that no pain will matter, and that ring of muscle lets him slip free easily, malleable as candlewax under flame. Slickness follows, lube and the remnants of his own climax from earlier. He thinks that Seb liked that, being pulled into his lap in a kitchen chair. Good. Chris likes that too. They’ll do it more.

He bends over Sebastian, covers his husband’s body with the weight and presence of his, coaxes, “Seb? Color?”

Sebastian’s eyelashes flutter. Seem to be hard to lift. Requiring some effort.

“Sebastian.” Chris moves to touch his cheek, remembers the presence of lube on all fingertips, internally winces and settles for a nose-nudge. “Come on, sub, you gotta wake up enough to talk to me. Can’t fuck you if you can’t say yes.”

Sebastian blinks at him. Opens eyes.

“Hey,” Chris observes, nose to nose, “so that works. You okay?”

Sebastian says something that is absolutely not in English. Stops. Looks puzzled.

“Tell me if you want me to, like, grab my phone and find a Romanian translation app,” Chris says helpfully.

Seb blinks again. “I…you…it feels…I feel…”

“You feel like what, sub?” To hell with the lube and the stickiness. He swipes most of it onto Seb’s hip and the sheets, and reaches up to cradle his submissive’s head. They can shower later. “You need to tell me, baby, or I don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” Sebastian says weakly, an echo but not. “I’m so…it’s so…”

“Too much?” They can stop. He can ease Seb back down, rub his back, talk him through the aftermath. He’ll start right now. “Want me to untie you?”

“No.” Sebastian still looks confused, though, which isn’t helping Chris not fret. “I want…you said you…inside me…”

“You want that?” He brushes the kiss against Sebastian’s lips, like an enchantment. “You going to be okay if I do that? Or d’you need to slow down?”

“I want,” Seb says again, and stops, frustrated by words. “I want to feel you. Please, Chris.”

“I can do that.” He shifts weight, lets Seb feel him more: his body atop his submissive’s, reinforcement. “But only if we’re not gonna hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt.” Sebastian’s eyes are huge and dreamy. “Everything feels so…like sparkling, I can’t…I feel good everywhere, Chris. It’s like I’m…it just keeps…like I’m still going to come, I _am_ coming, I’m…” He shivers. Subspace, Chris thinks again. Horizonless velvet seas. In this case, full of light and diamonds. Sparkling.

“I want you to fuck me like this,” Sebastian tells him very carefully, adorably serious amid the heights, wide-eyed. “Sir. Chris. Please.”

“Yes, then.” He kisses his husband again for that. “Since you’re being so good. So polite. Answering me when I ask. You deserve to get what you want, Sebastian.”

And Seb shivers again and flushes pink and shy: unexpectedly tender and earnest and bashful at the praise, at how much he loves it.

Chris catches breath, an inhale like a snag of crystal, a tangle of glitter. Sebastian’s so beautiful. And Chris himself is so damn _lucky_. He’s briefly dazzled by it all being real.

Forever. Them. Real.

In their bed, in their home, stars and city lights peeping in together through window-glass, he keeps Sebastian tied up and pinned in place: his. He moves between those bound and spread baby-colt legs and fits his body to his husband’s, and promptly nearly comes on the spot at the first nudge of his cock to that beckoning plush space. Has to fight for self-control. Like a first time. Like a boy in love.

He pushes into Sebastian slowly, not so much because his submissive’s too sensitive but because Chris himself is, right this second. Shaken by love.

Seb’s body’s acquiescent and willing and lush around him, having taken that toy, his hand, his cock already. Chris did that. Chris has done that. Sebastian moans as Chris moves inside him. His eyes are enormous, dark with want and unable to focus well in the wave of new sensations. His fingers curl in their bonds and then uncurl, accepting.

Chris, atop him, inside him, loves him; and makes love to him, gently at first and then harder as Seb moans again and shivers under him, head tossing across the pillow, whimpering a yes in Romanian.

Yes. More.

Harder. Faster. His collar around Seb’s throat. His cock plunging into the heat of Seb’s body. Hitting that spot, making his submissive cry out and quiver, overcome. Whispering words of praise.

He keeps glancing at that collar. At Seb’s face, at Seb’s arching body, also; but back to that symbol. A story wrapped around that elegant throat. Courage and discovery coiled into black leather.

He bends closer. Balances weight. Puts a hand on his husband’s throat: over that symbol. Sebastian makes a noise and tries exhaustedly to clench around him, a plea, a need. Chris strokes fingers, palm, a caress, over leather; he puts a bit more weight into the grip, experimental.

His. His husband, his submissive, his Sebastian. Who wants this. Who’s found this, and found Chris’s heart, and holds the universe together with that brilliant smile.

He whispers, “More?”

Sebastian’s eyelashes flicker, eyes opening, finding his. A nod. Trust: devout and complete and brimming over into the tangible, here to touch and kiss and hold and take. His throat under Chris’s collar, Chris’s hand. Chris’s cock fucking him, making him whimper and sob with the inundation.

Sebastian’s lips even form a reply, barely audible but carried on the night to Chris’s soul, of “Green, Chris,” because Sebastian is perfect and knows exactly what his Dominant needs to hear. Affirmation, and his name.

He uses just one hand. Doesn’t cut off Sebastian’s air entirely. Can’t. Won’t. Not sure Seb’s a good judge of his body’s capabilities at the moment. Not important anyway; that’s not the point.

The point’s the presence. The knowledge and the weight. Sebastian’s _his_.

And he’s Sebastian’s. Everything he is, everything he wants. Tied up and laced through with those lakewater eyes and clumsiness and kisses that taste like morning coffee. He’s not lost himself in belonging to Sebastian; he’s found himself. The person Chris Evans can be.

And so, given that, he should get back to giving his husband everything _Seb_ wants. Which involves thorough incontrovertible ravishing, surrender, being bound to their bed and fucked and dominated while floating in that endless coruscating submissive space, body and thoughts and sensations under Chris’s command.

Chris fucks him and kisses him and tightens the hand around his throat, over his collar, and slams into him harder. Sebastian quivers, incoherent now, sliding into blurry rapture. The small amount of air he’s getting can’t be enough; the struggle will be intensifying it all, heightening every impact to unimaginable extremes. He tenses in place when Chris shifts position over him, atop him, Seb’s mostly-soft reddened cock trapped and rubbing between their bodies.

Chris whispers his name, whispers, “So good for me, Seb, sub, my sub, my Sebastian, my good boy.”

Sebastian’s whole body shudders with bliss. Chris hears someone groan, and it’s himself, as his hips move and the release takes him: abrupt and yet not, iridescent and clearly defined and infinite all at once, a billow of white heat that gathers up inside him and pours out, a paradox that doesn’t leave him empty but full, full and completed.

He spills himself into Sebastian’s sweet heat, knowing Sebastian’ll feel it, and Seb shudders again all over, mouth open, eyes open but unseeing; afterwards he’s quiet and motionless in his bonds, eyes falling slowly shut. He’s breathing; Chris lifts weight from his throat, touches his neck, finds the pulse that mirrors his own. Sebastian’s semi-conscious, not wholly out; he murmurs something, a faint mumble of not-words, when Chris touches him.

Sebastian’s face is wet. Tear-tracks. Overwhelmed. But those aren’t all his tears. Chris brushes a new damp spot on that beloved cheek. Touches his own. Feels salt and water. Breathes, “I love you,” voice ragged.

Sebastian, being Sebastian, stirs slightly and mumbles something else. Chris says, “Yeah, I know, of course I love you, you’re perfect, you don’t have to tell me, I got it,” and lets a few more water-drops escape, face tucked into Seb’s hair for a second, unashamed.

He gets his submissive untied and checked over and cleaned up, as much as he can without swooping Sebastian off into a soothing hot bath full of protectiveness and cherishing. He winces on his sub’s behalf at what’s going to be soreness—Seb’s flushed and limp cock, and his hole, the opening that’s taken so much tonight—but it’s not too bad; it’ll all heal fast. Sebastian’s waking up by the time Chris finishes tenderly worshipfully cleaning him, and tries to reach for him, uncoordinated and wobbly as a kitten.

An eager half-grown one. With tempting fluffy fur. Nice to pet. All worn out, right now, though.

“Shh,” Chris tells him, “I got you, I’m here, you’re here, I love you, you were so good for me, I’ve always got you, you’re okay,” and gathers him into arms and holds him. Sebastian trembles a little, cries a little, nuzzles into Chris’s chest, and nibbles and licks at his tattoo-ink, aimless and mindless on that submissive release and seeking reassurance in tactile anchors, taste and suckling and clinging. Chris doesn’t mind. Kind of likes it, in fact. Seb’s mouth on his skin. Seb nestled into him. Seb’s body heavy and lax and fulfilled.

Both of them, he thinks: fulfilled.

He kisses the top of Sebastian’s head. He talks to his submissive, because Sebastian likes that when finding his way back up: more praise, words of love, inconsequential teasing about his husband saying ice cream’s easy to make, which, maybe it is but that’s not a thing Chris is personally ever going to try, given his culinary lack of skills.

He even sings to Seb, this time. He feels like it. Oldies, classics, a chorus or two from the songs Sebastian’d put on that playlist, earlier. Love songs.

Sebastian stirs against him midway through a classic-rock ballad about feelings. Manages to peek up his direction, through drowsiness and those pretty half-awake long eyelashes.

“Hey.” Chris self-interrupts the next verse to grin at him. “You awake?”

Seb considers this, and manages to produce a _not really but yes I’m fine I don’t want you to worry_ shrug with only eyebrows and that expression. Amazing.

Chris says anyway, because he forever will, “You okay? Anything hurting, too sore, not feeling good?”

Sebastian takes this question seriously—Chris wants him to—and visibly runs through a mental inventory of self. Then shakes his head.

“Not talking yet?”

“I can.” Seb nestles back down on Chris’s shoulder. They’d been lying face to face; Chris rolls more onto his back and guides his husband into the shield-wall space between one arm and his own body, head supported. “Not a lot. Not yet. I’m still…”

“Still pretty out of it?”

“Mmm. Fuzzy. Cotton-fluff. Spun sugar. Coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Like the first sip. Hot. Sweet. Good. All the way down to my toes. You? Good.”

“Me very good,” Chris agrees contentedly, and rubs his husband’s back. “Should’ve known you’d be poetic about coffee. I can make some if you want.”

“Yes, please. In a few minutes. Or hours. I don’t want you to move.”

“Not going anywhere.” He pets Seb’s hip. “You’re gonna start feeling that soon. Where it does kinda hurt.” It’s a question, buried. Not a painful one—not much, at least; he’s too happy for that—but present.

They’ve knocked sheets and blankets to the foot of the bed, half onto the floor. All that blue tangles at them giddily. Snowdrifts at play. Starshine and coiled rope at the edge of the mattress. The memory of his knots around composer’s wrists lies there in loopy satisfaction. Sebastian’s got a few more pink marks across that skin, those wrists and ankles and the spots where ropes became extra-friendly, but those’re fading already and Seb likes that.

And hears the words Chris doesn’t say. Of course. Naturally. All the stories within stories. “It was. Yes. It was yes. Everything I—I don’t know how to explain. What I wanted. It was—you were—so good. You’re so good to me, Chris, sir.” When he tilts his head up those gorgeous eyes glimmer like moonlight. “I feel…”

“Like coffee?” He beams when Sebastian laughs. A bubble of pride expands in his chest. “With cream?”

“Extra cream. And sugar.” His submissive, still snickering, pauses to glance at him sideways, mock demure. “ _Whipped_ cream, perhaps.”

Chris’s laughter shakes them all, them and the bed and the night. Sebastian stretches up to kiss him, tucked into his arms. Chris offers, after the kissing, “Maybe someday. About the whips. Never really tried. But if you want.”

“Maybe someday.” Seb shrugs at him, feline and lazy, well-pleasured and comfortable. “I told you once that I don’t need all that. The toys, the check-boxes, the things I’ve done—had done to me—and played with. The things that you haven’t tried. I liked some of those. Not others. But I said I don’t need that, because I don’t. You make me fly, I believe I said. Just you.”

“God,” Chris murmurs, heartfelt, “I fucking love you, so much, I’ll figure out some kind of tutorial or extra training for me if you want, I can learn about whips, that one’s not a no, kind of a yes, I’ve just never,” and strokes his hair. “Warm enough? Want your collar off, or on for now? Though I kinda wanted to give you a bath, after that…”

“You did buy me a waterproof collar,” Sebastian points out. His voice has some tatterdemalion edges, roughly treated, but easing back into use. He seems not to mind. His hair’s ruffled from sex, from Chris’s fingers: well-pleasured too. “The blue one. For the beach. Do you recall what I said to you, the morning after we got married? When you first put this one on me. And also yes to you bathing me. And also I love you.”

“Guess I did. Where’s that one? Hanging up? Still in your bag from last time? And—yeah. You said you were scared.” True, but he thinks he knows where Sebastian’s going with this. Not a hundred percent sure, so he’ll let Seb say it, but he’s got an idea.

“Hanging in the wardrobe,” his husband says peacefully, “in the playspace, with the rest. You told me to be tidy with them. I do listen to your rules. I did say I was scared, yes. Do you remember what else?”

“You thought…you said you thought you could…”

“I said,” Sebastian joins in, answer meeting his, overlapping, landing together, “that I thought I could do this. With you.”

“And you could.” Sebastian can do anything. Chris believes this wholeheartedly. Hell, Seb rescues him in ways he didn’t ever know he needed. A hero walking through the world at his side. A brave heart and generous hands. Traditions and newness, collars and ropes and vows and freedom. An opera, not yet spun into gold by those eloquent pianist’s fingers but someday in their future. One of those fairy-stories, the ones his husband knows: not without some dark spots and bruises along the path, but with a happy ending. Every day. “You can.”

“I should’ve said it differently.” Sebastian adjusts position, more on top of him; tucks hands under that adorable chin, propped on Chris’s chest like a baby lynx come home. His legs fall long and solid against Chris’s; he’s smiling.

It’s _that_ smile. The one that begins sweet and shy and private and gets bigger and brighter and unfurls to beckon in the world, in this case their bedroom and the night and one Chris Evans, who lies there in bed with him and ends up breathless at the glory being shared.

“I should have said,” Sebastian goes on, “ _we_ can do this. You and me. Together. Because that’s what works, isn’t it? It’s not just me. And it’s not just you. It’s us. So. Chris. Sir.”

“So…”

“So,” Sebastian says, quiet and compass-true, quiet like anything louder will explode with happiness, fireworks just under the surface of important words and dancing there, “let me try this again, I’m saying I think we can do this, Chris, together.”

Chris puts a hand into his hair, a hand sliding to the back of his collar, resting over it, pulling him up into a kiss; they’re laughing now, laughing into the kiss, holding each other. Sebastian’s eyes sparkle at the caress and the hint of control, and Chris tells him, “Yes.”


End file.
